Second Peasant. You'd better give him some.
Servants' Cook (gets out a bottle and fills a wine-glass). Here you are; you'll get no more.
Discharged Cook (clutches hold of it and drinks, trembling all over). Loukérya, Cook! I am drinking, and you must understand....
Servants' Cook. Now, then, stop your chatter! Get on to the oven, and let not a breath of you be heard!
[The old COOK meekly begins to climb up, muttering something to himself.
Second Peasant. What it is, when a man gives way to his weakness!
First Peasant. That's just it—human weakness.
Third Peasant. That goes without saying.
[The DISCHARGED COOK settles down, muttering all the time.
[Silence.